


Me and Mine

by missbluebonnet



Series: The Lovely Moons [13]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blind Character, Drama, F/M, Family, Found Family, Heist, prison break - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbluebonnet/pseuds/missbluebonnet
Summary: The Mandalorian takes a job with an old associate, and you meet some of his past.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/Xi’an, Din Djarin/You
Series: The Lovely Moons [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638400
Comments: 50
Kudos: 153





	Me and Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so, so for your incredible comments and messages! It really makes writing for you worth it to know how much you enjoy the story!!

When Cara leaves you, it is with a silent approval you didn’t know you wanted. It’s the dimpled smile she gives you, pressing the tear of her cheek toward the heavens, when she rubs her gloved thumb over your ivory ring that settles your nerves. Even moreso, the gentle kiss of affection against your cheek, as if you’ve done something to earn her favor by swearing yourself to the Mandalorian, and it leaves you calm and warm. For all her grandstanding showmanship, you think this battle-hardened shocktrooper recognizes the sign of healing wounds, and she has the grace to respect them as they knit together.

The little child in your arms waves at her as she disappears into the loading dock on Coruscant, and Din gently leads you back on board. He is anxious to be gone, never sitting or standing still. His movements are erratic, jolting and abrupt, but too skilled to be clumsy. You feel caught in a different space and time from him, sitting in tranquility and leaning back in your chair to close your eyes as he flurries around the cockpit to take off. Your thumb rolls your wedding band upon your finger with idle enjoyment, unable to be part of the flurry around you. It is only when you are safely ensconced in the silvery tunnel of hyperspace once again, hurtling back into the outer rim, that you hear him release a long-held sigh.

“This isn’t a good idea.”

Your lips twitch with a smile, keeping your eyes closed. The child is dozing in your lap, resting his little head against your abdomen, and you breathe deeply. 

“You said it’s something you have to do.”

“I know.” A beat. “It’s still not a good idea.”

One eye cracking open, you smile fully, finding him leaning around his chair to look at you. You are slow to stand, your limbs feeling heavy and your mind clouding with the need for sleep. Adjusting the child in your arms so he is cradled against your chest, you step close and lay a hand on Din’s pauldron, whispering conspiratorially, “That’s never stopped you before.”

A snort causes the vocoder to crackle with static, and your smile widens, a shared warmth sparking low in your stomach at the sound. You leave him, turning from the cockpit to take the baby back to bed. He awoke just long enough to see Cara off, the sounds of the landing gear always rousing him, but the quiet hum of the engines in hyperdrive work like a charm to settle him quickly once more. 

When his pram is shut, you go through the motions of washing in the fresher, taking care to clean your skin until it nearly hurts, ring the water from your hair, and dress in the soft, warm clothes Din purchased for you back in the Hoth system. You have never considered sleeping in your clothes before, but after seeing the Mandalorian do it so often, you know the advantage it gives in times of distress. The thick leggings, lined with fleece, and the light fabric of the dress keep you from the chilly recycled air of the Razor Crest, and it only occurs to you, climbing into the bed in the captain’s quarters, that your husband purchased them for those very reasons: comfort and warmth, knowing you’d one day need to wear them to bed, to run and fight when you should not have to.

Some time in the night, when you are caught between waking and dreaming, you feel the bed shift and dip with an accompanying body. Warm breath tickles your neck, lazy, heavy arms grow like vines around your waist, and a scratchy, unshaven face presses into your hair upon the pillow. 

You dream of the mudhorn again, wheezing as she dies in the muddy valley, in the rainy mountains of Arvala-7. In your dreams, your vision is clear as crystal, fading in and out of a flare of light that hurts behind your eyes. You see the Moff’s wife holding her hands out to you when you were a little child, destroying the boundary that separated two lonely, aching souls. While never your mother, she protected you and nurtured you when she could afford it, when she could step back from her imperial husband’s demands of solidarity to a greater cause.

When your eyes drift open, you’re not sure how long you have been awake, the darkness of the room swallowing you whole. It takes a moment, drifting in vertigo, that you realize there is movement in the cabin. Turning on your back, you let your eyes roll around like marbles in the dark, unable to make out a single shape or shade, but you can hear the rustling of fabric, the soft exhales of a tired man, and the quiet padding of socked feet. When his breathing hitches, you begin to sit up until you feel weight displace the mattress, and his warm lips press a kiss to your forehead. His breath disturbs the hair at your crown.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers, one hand bracing his weight and the other cupping the side of your face. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The frown on your face is more of a pout, but you allow him to ease you back, your head cradled on the pillow. He follows, laying back down beside you beneath the fur he keeps in the coldest room of the ship. 

“You didn’t. I had a dream.” 

Din shifts until his face is only a few inches from your own, where you can feel his warm breath on your neck making your hair feel humid against your skin. One hand, its fingers long and its palm wide, smooths across the expanse of your abdomen, resting on the curve of your waist comfortingly. You think he might be able to see you in the dark, but he doesn’t wear his helmet in this room, somehow more holy in his creed when he can see your face unfiltered. 

You bring your hand up to his, holding it and revelling in the simple gesture of affection, remembering how he first showed you what holding hands could feel like. How can it be so full of solace, an unspoken act of healing? It’s just fingers touching, calluses and prints and scrubbed nails, but you can also feel each other’s pulse when the heels of your palms press together, too.

There is a pleasant warmth beginning at the tips of your toes, traveling up the back of your legs and down from your neck, wrapped in fur and your husband’s heavy arm. And it is still a strange feeling to say the word, even privately in your mind, causing a heavy, rich kind of emotion that sits in your mouth, tightening your throat. Like you might cry, but you are not sad. 

Denied the sensation of touch for so long, it is a dreamy luxury to both of you to be close like this outside the heat of battle, stress, and fear. Your desire is a distant thing right now, tempered beneath a very deep layer of satisfaction at the gentle stroking of his thumb beneath your breast and the steady rhythm of his breath upon your neck. His other arm slides beneath the pillow, and you turn your head in his direction. Your trapped arm drifts upward, laying against the curve of his chest, bare of beskar and soft from his shirt. 

“Sometimes I forget how soft you are,” you whisper, feeling the slow drum of his heart beneath your palm. His socks slide beneath your own feet, and you smile, letting your other hand slip around his waist and follow a wide berth up the valley of his back. “I won’t grow tired of remembering, though.”

If Din knows what to say in response, he keeps it to himself, but he doesn’t need to say anything, either. In the quiet space between you, simply enjoying each other’s presence and touch without a dizzying fire, there is no urgency and no expectation. His hand rounds the curve of your breast before following the slope of your waist, warming your lower back, its most cherished resting place. He leans forward, shifting you once more until he can press his mouth against the chaste collar of your dress. Your fingers find the familiar curls at the back of his neck, drawing up through the dark, thick waves. He has trimmed his hair in the last few hours, his ears free of the weight. You know he takes time in the fresher to do such things himself, and you appreciate the perfunctory attitude with which he attends those tasks. You wonder if he might cut your hair, too.

His head now rests upon your chest, his deaf ear pillowed between your breasts as you pet up the back of his neck. You want to tell him about your dreams, to ask him about the job he is taking, but your eyes are heavy once again and you fall asleep, holding him close.

When you wake again, lucid and thirsty, his weight is gone but he is still near, hand gently shaking your shoulder. You stumble as you stand, not having slept so well and so deeply in weeks. Din steadies you and allows you to use him for balance as you step into your boots. Your hand is warm on the cold beskar pauldron, noticing he took the time to dress and let you sleep, and as you follow him out of the captain’s quarters, you can hear the quiet hiss of his helmet as he puts it on again. 

In the cockpit, the child sits up in his makeshift cradle that is belted in the co-pilot seat, and you smile, drifting toward him to cup his face and flutter small kisses over his brow, his eyes, his ears. He whines softly, holding up his hands in a tired plea to be held, and you are eager to answer, bringing him close to your body and sitting back in your own chair. Din drops from hyper once you are seated, and now that he mans the controls, his mind is split between piloting and glancing back at you.

“He’s already eaten,” he huffs, flipping a switch to his left. “Half asleep and somehow still managed to eat a dozen ration packs.” 

Your smile is pressed against the top of the baby’s head in a gentle kiss, and he coos, balling his tiny fists in your dress. Din turns when you don’t respond, but you are too lost in the little child in your arms, how he pats at the roundness of your cheeks, nuzzles the soft warmth of your neck, babbles happily when he catches a long lock of hair. Your dreams of dead and dying mothers are distant and faded when you hold him close, a tender warmth that you have only ever experienced when you love him. You are kissing his tiny palm when his father clears his throat, drawing the attention of both of you from your sleepy, happy embrace.

“I think it might be best,” he begins, voice rough and pitched low under the duress of waking up just moments before. “If you stay on board when we dock.”

When you first boarded the Razor Crest, that would have been more a command with your safety in mind, and one you would have welcomed. Weeks before the Hoth system, it may have even given you relief. Instead, there is a curious bubble of confusion, gentle and small, but without the fire of aggression. Something about his tone, how his elbows are braced upon his thighs ponderously, causes you to realize he doesn't like his own suggestion. In fact, if you didn’t know better (and yet, you do, concerning this strange husband of yours), you would think he didn’t want you here at all on this job. The last time he chased a bounty that you joined him on, he killed a dozen strangers to get you back. So, perhaps he is more than allowed this.

There was a time, not so long before, when his fear would birth anger. Now it is caution, almost a depressed acceptance, and you wonder if the fire burned away much of his pride when his bounty attacked him. 

“Where are we docking?” you ask, slowly standing up. You move closer to his side, balancing your little one in the crook of one arm while your other hand rests on the back of the pilot’s seat. Din turns carefully, pulling up the holopad display of a hanger station. You can’t make out much, the glowing blueprint more a mess than a structured and detailed representation under your scarred eyes. 

“The Roost. Ranzar Malk runs it.” His voice is dry like chalk, and you notice movement where his hands rest in his lap above a bouncing knee. “I’ve kept tabs on him over the years. He’s got a job I can do. Should be quick.”

“And this Ranzar-”

“Ran,” Din supplies, and you nod.

“This Ran...he is the reason you are nervous?” you ask, moving so you can lean back against the smooth panel of the control board where you will not accidentally press anything or lean against a lever. You can feel the collar of your tunic growing damp from the drooling child chewing harmlessly on your clothing. 

“He’s one of them,” Din mutters, and then breathes deep, sighing heavily. The weariness is not born of lack of sleep-at least, not this time. It is something you have witnessed as a slave, the haunted look of others not left with any choices, moving about like ghosts beneath their implants. Whatever has brought him to the decision to keep you in his sight while on this particular job, it was not a decision easily made. His helmet turns to you, a gesture you only notice by the shine of starlight on his beskar through the observation deck, and his gloved hand reaches out to touch your side. The movement is shy and warm, making sure you are still present and real, and you smile. 

“If you want me to stay on board, I will,” you say after a moment, feeling his thumb rubbing soothing motions against your side. It is not in your nature to fight common sense, good reason or logic. “It would be better, to keep an eye on our womprat,” you add, and as if on cue, the little green infant lets go of your tunic, opens his mouth as wide as he can, and yawns. 

Din’s shoulders sink beneath his pauldrons, and his voice shakes when he whispers, “Thank you.”

When the Roost comes into view, you take the baby down into the hull, bundling him in his blue blanket and petting his ear as he drifts. The excess of food and warmth make him drunk with sleep, and he goes without resistance. You stay seated in the mouth of the medical bunk, appreciating the smoothness of Din’s piloting as he docks without a hiccup. You listen to the landing gear shift and groan beneath the ship, and it is moments later when the heavy, clunking thump of the Mandalorian jumping down into the hull draws your attention. 

“You’re going to stay in there?” he asks, his voice nearly an octave higher in disbelief. You blink, glancing between him and your son before shrugging your shoulders.

“What if they come on board? They’ll probably make for the cockpit, so it’s better down here. Besides, this has a lock on it,” you add, patting the medical bunk’s side and smiling when his head tilts to the side. He takes measured steps until the front of his pants brush your own. Head tilting back, you feel strangely calm in the face of his own unease, and you smile again. “Not as good as a Mandalorian between us and the door, but it’ll do.”

“That won’t happen.”

Leaning down, Din touches the forehead of his helm to your hairline, his gloved hand cupping the back of your head. His voice has adjusted now, a deeper sound that reminds you of the thrum of a great wave hitting ragged rocks. His other hand cups the side of your neck, and you touch it with your fingers, feeling cradled.

“I love you.”

The words are spoken softly, simply, and your breath catches in your throat. Din Djarin has never been, to your knowledge, one who says what he thinks or feels, and you cannot imagine that you will ever grow accustomed to hearing him speak like this. Bashful and tender, as if wearing the armor has softened what lies beneath. Your lips part to return what he already knows, but a gross shuddering draws your attention too slowly to realize what’s happening.

The hatch lowers with a stunted rhythm courtesy of being damaged by the flametrooper who ransacked the Razor Crest, and it thuds against the ground with a clanging reverberance. All at once, you and Din move in a whirlwind by pure instinct. He has his blaster out, aimed low near the holster just as you slam the button on the medical bed shut, only realizing your error of not being inside it yourself too late.

Quick, shuffling footsteps ascend the ramp, and your line of sight is blocked when the Mandalorian steps in front of you, boxing you behind him. A whirring and static filled monotone echoes in the empty hull.

“Curious that there should be not one but _two_ people surviving on what is a poor excuse for an aircraft,” the droid delivers in stunted Basic. You can hear the whirring of his machinery, and you think he must be moving or gesturing.

Din stands fast, not lowering his weapon in the slightest. “Get off my ship.”

“Your ship needs to be assessed for damage.”

“Get off my ship before I put you out of commission.” The following charge of the blaster is a reassuring sound, even if it seems a little much to you considering it is only a droid. 

“Very well.”

You both listen to the retreating gait of the droid before you feel Din’s back release a small amount of tension. He holsters his weapon quickly, and you can see his hands flex at his sides.

“Should I still stay on board?” you ask. There is uncertainty hanging in the air between you both as you stare at each other, but Din finally sighs and shakes his head.

“They’ll know. I’d rather they think the ship is empty,” he adds, his helmet tilts towards the medical bed. You nod, feeling unsure and nervous, and you move to follow him before he stops you gently with a hand on your arm. “Your beskar. Bring it with you.”

Your own curiosity is piqued, but you nod and comply. This is not a world you are familiar with, and you trust the Mandalorian implicitly to know what to expect. Retrieving the slim metallic rod from beneath your sash, you unlock your staff and lean on it with both hands, offering a small smile towards Din. He nods in approval before turning and descending the hatch, and you toe your way behind him carefully, wary of slipping. Normally he would offer you his arm, but you think the choice to withhold the gesture is intentional. Nervous brambles begin forming in your belly, and you blink in the surprisingly lit station. The cacophony of drilling and soldering, paired with vermillion sparks in the air is like a foreign world. You have never spent time around machinery, and the little you know about flying the Razor Crest pales in comparison to the engineering and mechanic work that rings in your ears. 

Following the Mandalorian is easy enough, the shine on his beskar like a guiding star’s path. People who pass the two of you stare openly and unabashedly, and it occurs to you that he is a famed warrior in his own right as much as by his Creed. You think you have grown complacent with his gentleness, and a not so small amount of pride bubbles in your breast. Fighting the smile down, you are caught off guard by a gravelly voice calling over in your direction.

“Mando, is that you under that bucket?”

A stout, portly man with a grey, wiry mane and beard to match approaches, and you step to the side, blinking in surprise when Din puts his hand out to receive a welcoming shake. His voice is resigned, sighing his own greeting, “Ran.” 

“Didn’t think I’d see you in these parts again. Good to see you-and you brought company,” Ran sounds more than surprised-perhaps impressed, and you can feel his eyes roll from the top of your head to the tip of your boots. “Got a name, sweetheart?”

For the second time that day, you are cut off before you can respond.

“She can't speak Basic,” Din states bluntly, and it takes you a moment to school your face into a neutral expression at the sudden and easy lie.

Ran’s face contorts with confusion before leveling into something wrinkled and sly. “Good for you, huh?”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek when he laughs with a wheeze, and you squeeze your beskar with careful patience, relieved when Din doesn’t answer. There is only a beat of silence between them before Ran starts walking, relaxed and lazy, and Din keeps pace with him, careful to never look in your direction. When Ran lays a hand on the back of Din’s shoulder, you bristle.

“You know, to be honest, I was surprised when you reached out to me,” he stops, and your attention is caught by a drill off to the side. You have to strain your ears to hear Ran talk. “You know, I...I hear things. Like maybe things between you and the Guild aren’t working out.”

Though your own stomach sinks at the words, Din’s voice remains even and low. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, you know the policy. No questions,” Ran says with something close to satisfaction, you think, even though he isn’t smiling. You see the glint in his eye when he glances in your direction, and you are careful to keep your own gaze on the drill that an engineer operates a few yards away. “And _you_? You’re welcome back here any time.”

They continue walking, speaking casually about old acquaintances that only earn clipped responses from the Mandalorian. You keep pace a few steps behind them, the soft scuff of your staff barely noticeable beneath the sounds of mechanics. There are different ships and what you suspect are weapons that are being worked on in the station. The smell of fuel and oil is thick, overlaying dirty iron, and it’s all you can do not to wrinkle your nose.

Ran leads you and Din up the stairs of a metal catwalk, overlooking the garage, and the latter asks, “So what’s the job?”

“Yeah. One of our associates ran afoul of some of our competitors and got himself caught, so I’m putting a crew together to spring him,” Ran says, coming to a stop in the middle of the path. “It’s a five person job, and I got four. All I need is the ride,” he adds, voice hazy with satisfaction. “And you brought it.”

Din, who had been leaning back against the guard rail, straightens quickly before glancing back at the Razor Crest. “The ship wasn’t part of the deal,” he grits out, and you know his jaw must be tight as stone beneath his helmet from the sound of his voice.

You feel the blood drain from your face, suddenly unsure if you locked the medical bay well enough.

“Well, the Crest is the only reason I let you back in here,” Ran says, and he shifts his weight to the side, effectively putting himself between you and the Mandalorian. You keep your eyes down on the mechanics working below you. You had tried to imagine what would warrant Din’s caution, his worry over doing business with an old associate, and it never occurred to you that he wouldn’t be one step ahead of them. There is something subterranean about how Ran has insinuated Din into this mission, something that leaves you feeling sick to your stomach.

Din’s helmet angles toward Ran, his beskar catching the light enough to make any grown man shudder and back down, but the old con isn’t intimidated. In fact, he steps closer, his dark eyes indifferent and cold. “What’s the look?” he asks, half amused and half irritated. “Is that gratitude?”

You swallow the knot growing in your throat, gripping your staff with both hands. You raise your eyes toward the two men, and you almost wish the Mandalorian would throw this lowlife over the rail and be done with it. The fervent aggression surprises you, but you tamper it, grounding yourself once again with your walking aid. You can feel the vibrations of the machinery all around you like blood thrumming through arteries.

The moment passes, and Ran grins, a wheezy chuckle following the bob of his head. “Uh huh,” he glances back at you, causing that same sickness to build when he licks his lips. “I think it is.”

The Mandalorian drops his helmet to the side, his own dignity disregarded as the criminal steps around him like some kind of king would avoid stepping on a rock. When he is far enough, you approach the armored warrior, slipping your hand over his vambrace. His visor tilts up toward you, and it’s a determined effort not to betray your own fears. The last thing you want is for him to feel regret now that you’re both too far in.

So rather than follow the instinct of begging him to turn back, you nod encouragingly and let your hand slip away. The two of you catch up with Ran as he shows you various weapons and launchers his men are working on, things that will turn their operation more lucrative, and Din makes little comment on most of them. Even if you could see, you wouldn’t recognize half the equipment or tools he boasts about. You are more distracted by what you _can_ see, and you feel a small jolt of surprise whenever flares and sparks erupt in your vision from soldering tools. 

Ran approaches a table tucked in a remote corner of the garage and says, “Hey, Mayfield.”

“Yeah?”

“This is Mando, the guy I was telling you about.” Heat prickles in your cheeks at the easy use of the nickname, and you close the few paces between you and the Mandalorian and his criminal acquaintance. You stand on his right, leaning on your staff, and you feel strange comfort to be in the shadow of the conversation. Or perhaps it’s because you have everyone in your line of sight. “We used to do jobs way back when.”

Mayfield is a similar shape you can recognize, not unlike Din without his armor, but you think he must have pale hair or no hair at all from the absence of color above his neck. A loud click of weaponry makes you even more queasy than you were before, and you swallow again as he steps forward, nodding. “This the guy?” he asks, sounding skeptical.

“Yeah, we were all young, trying to make a name for ourselves,” Ran’s bushy beard angles in your direction, and you can feel the weight of his stare like the mosquitos on Sorgan, looking for a delectable patch of skin to land on. He laughs, that same wheezy, humorless sound. “Yeah, but running with a Mandalorian… that brought us some reputation.”

“Oh yeah? What did he get out of it?” Mayfield asks, sounding unimpressed while he handles a firearm on the table.

“I asked him that one time too,” Ran chuckles, and it is as if he and Mayfield are having their own conversation, separate from you and the Mandalorian who stands straight and solid as the iron his armor is made from. You breathe through your nose, flicking your eyes down at Ran’s boots instead of trying to find anything else to focus on. The uneasiness in your stomach thrashes like snakes in a pit when Ran leans closer. “You remember what you said, Mando?”

The beskar helmet tilts toward the older man, a humor he doesn’t deserve.

Tossing a grin toward Mayfield, Ran delightedly says, “Target practice.”

The shared laughter between the two criminals falls on deaf ears to you and the Mandalorian, who stand close enough to touch but somehow feel miles apart. Your cheeks grow prickly with heat, and there is a tinny ringing in your ears, knuckles turning white as you grip your staff with both hands. You think of Toro Calican, who boasted the same attitude of forged finesse, dead from an expertly aimed blaster shot, and you can hear the rattling sound of the weapon Din tossed at Tycho Ivalice’s feet on Catonica. Two times you were gripped with shock, seizing with fear, but the Mandalorian wasn’t then and isn’t now.

There is something haunting about the skill it has taken to keep you alive having been honed by the things Din had not wanted you to know. You don’t think you want to know any more, don’t think you’re strong enough to stomach it. 

Your world tilts and slides out of your reach, and this is unnoticed by Ran or Mayfield, the former who thumbs his belt loops and grins with all his teeth. “We did some crazy stuff, didn’t we?” Your eyes snap upward when he leans in again, his image a hazy swatch of grey and brown, though the pink of his flushed face from laughing draws your gaze upward. “If you only knew what this guy did, girlie. It’d keep you up at night.”

Din’s voice cuts through with a long-suffering, hoarse crack, “That was a long time ago.”

The sound tightens your throat too much for you to swallow again, and instead of the sea of uncertainty you felt drowned in before, all you feel now is hot shame and thorny irritation with these two men, laughing over the things Din has paid years of self-isolation for. You begin to recognize the hot, thorny ball of emotion at the back of your throat as a new kind of anger, one that tastes like desert air.

“Well, I don’t go out anymore. You understand?” Ran slides between his words, his meaning and intention never one and the same. It is as if seedy plots deserve their own language. “So Mayfield is going to run point on this job. If he says it, it’s like it’s coming from me. You good with that?”

It is obvious the question expects no true answer, and the thin, pale man decorated with shiny weapons tilts his head to the side when Din’s brittle voice replies, “You tell me.”

You are suddenly aware of how cold your hands are when you touch the side of your neck, because your face feels hot. The pacifist in you would rather that this be done, and you know Din’s stubborn side will only churn conflict. 

The bigger part of you- _wife_ , your mind supplies-bares teeth in approval.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Ran laughs again, but Mayfield doesn’t seem to join in his amusement now.

“Yeah, well, things have changed a lot around here.” He grabs something from the table that you don’t recognize, some kind of blaster perhaps, and he meanders toward a workbench in the dark back corner.

“Mayfield’s one of the best triggermen I’ve ever seen,” Ran says out of the side of his mouth. “Former imperial sharpshooter.”

“That’s not saying much,” Din huffs, and you cover your mouth suddenly, coughing over a bout of laughter that bubbles up from your throat.

“I wasn’t a stormtrooper, wiseass!” Mayfield shouts, and you keep your hand over your mouth delicately, fighting the nervous smile down. He moves away from the bench, stepping purposefully close with a baleful glare to the both of you, and walks back out into the garage. Ran chuckles something to Din, and out of habit, you think, the familiar weight of your husband’s gloved hand rests on your lower back. It’s like an anchor pulling tight on a craggy ocean floor, the chain snapping into alignment. Everything feels fitted, righted again.

“Razor Crest? I can’t believe that thing can fly,” Mayfield says askance. “Looks like a Canto Bight slot machine.” The name alone of the city you had spent time in with your husband and children brings that unease hurling back, and you frown. Between this and that droid’s observations, you can’t imagine how Din has retained patience for peoples’ unwanted remarks of his ship. The three of you don’t break stride, and your heart beats heavier the closer these strangers approach the Crest. 

“Now the good-looking fellow there with the horns, that’s Burg,” Mayfield says, and when he gestures to the left, your heart nearly stops at what you thought was a giant hunk of machinery. Coming into view, you realize it’s a Devaronian, enormous in height and width, and he slams down a heavy crate with enough force you feel the vibrations through your feet. You instinctively step closer to the Mandalorian as the hulking brute steps around the crate, coming toe to toe with the armored warrior at your side. “This may surprise you,” Mayfield says. “But he’s our muscle.” 

The crimson of his skin appears to you, like oil seeping through a cloth, when he steps closer and into more light, and Din himself must tilt his head upward to keep Burg’s gaze. “So this is a Mandalorian. Thought they’d be bigger,” he rumbles, and your heartbeat palpitates when he rolls his massive head towards you. “And this?” he asks, bearing yellowed teeth. He holds his hand in front of your face, wiggling thick fingers to test your sight, and it makes you flinch. “A little blind mouse?”

Quick and dark as a raven’s wing, Din’s arm knocks the Devaronian’s arm down, earning a horrible, grating growl. They are toe to toe again, horns inches from the sing of beskar, but then Burg shows his teeth and laughs, a quaking chuckle you feel in your chest as he sidesteps the both of you. It only occurs to you, after he has walked away, that your hand has fisted some of Din’s cloak, the other pulling your staff close to your chest.

Ran and Mayfield share a glance that seems like a conversation in itself before the sharpshooter gestures to a darker figure hovering near the Razor Crest. “Droid’s name is Zero.”

When it turns, there are two large shining bulbs on either side of its head that reminds you of a streetlamp, and you know it to be the droid that barged its way upon the Razor Crest and began this nauseating song and dance. The automatic blaster it totes draws your attention now, though. You recognize it from the weaponry at the covert, and it’s all you can do to remind yourself to breathe. Droids do not make the human error of misfiring, nor do they suffer “trigger finger”, something that Rhalaz explained affects soldiers as well as those who mend clothes or deal with precision tools. It is what has you massaging Din’s hands at night, when he’s snoring and you are unable to sleep from dreams of dead and dying mothers.

You are no stranger to Din’s caution and avoidance of droids, though it takes you by surprise nearly every time you witness it. So you are a little curious when he doesn’t seem to be as wary as you would expect of this droid. Instead, he stares straight ahead and tilts his chin down, as if facing an invisible enemy no one else sees.

“I thought you said you had four.”

“He does.” 

The voice comes from behind you, and the hair at the back of your neck rises. You turn with the Mandalorian to find a svelte pale purple Twi’lek, something shining in one of her hands as she walks like a dancer. You can see her teeth, her mouth open like a wound when she smiles. “Tell me,” she coos. “Why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand?”

Like a scorpion, her arm makes a lashing arc, and the whirls of colors you see-brown, steel, black-all flash together. The Mandalorian is suddenly in front of you, one arm curled protectively behind him to encase you with his body, your nose buried in his cape, and the surrounding bits of laughter make your face burn with heat. The highest, loudest, and closest is the Twi’lek, blocked from your meager vision. 

“Oooh! Bit more touchy than I remember!” Her laugh is throaty, a shivering sound that makes you think she speaks more than the others, and you can hear the sound of something quietly tapping against his beskar. “This is shiny. You’re wearing it well, too. Who’s that you’ve got back there?”

A gloved hand curls into the flesh of your side, and when Din speaks, he sounds unmoved and indifferent, even if his grip on you is hard as iron. “Xi’an. Nice to see you, too.”

Mayfield is somewhere on the other side of Din, though his voice barely cuts through the ringing in your ears. “Do we need to leave the room or something?”

“Well, Xi’an’s been a little heartbroken since Mando left our group,” Ran supplies, sounding more amused than anything else. You bite your lip hard between your front teeth, the pain warding off the familiar sting of tears threatening your eyes. 

“Well with bright eyes, we’ll have five. Want to sit this one out, sweetheart?” Mayfield taunts.

“She’s not part of this.” You feel Din’s voice more than you hear it, pitched low and rough. 

“Oh, I’m all business now, see,” Xi’an hisses, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Learned from the best.” 

“Alright, lovebirds, save it for the ship. We don’t have a lot of time,” Ran says, and you can hear the sound of their retreating voices. One in particular, a deep rumble like the earth opening up, growls smugly as he passes Din, “Tiny.” 

You count the beats of your heart until the broad back you cling to suddenly turns, and you’re facing the shaded visor that you know so well. You want to hide your fear and swallow your uncertainty, but you know he sees it. Mandalorians survive off of seeing what others cannot, weakness and frailty of enemies. In those they love, you think it must be another language they are fluent in.

His words are softened, warm and quiet like a smooth stream. “Are you alright?” he asks, and you see it, see the moment his hand almost reaches out for you. He must think better, because it falls back to his side with trained discipline.

Your eyes, pale as they are, keep on the shine of his helmet, like the turn of a dancer keeping her balance, and you tighten your knuckles around your own beskar. “Tell me,” you start, swallowing on the hitch in your breathing. Your other hand lays against your front, pressing against your diaphragm that threatens to collapse when you inhale. “Tell me everything w-will be okay.”

His boots step close, kissing the toes of your own, and the heat of his body brushes against you when he sways into the gentle orbit of your space. The urge to put your hands on him, to seek his comfort and revel in the safety he represents nearly suffocates you. But you know his caution is just, his fear of things precious being abused and used against him. You have lived to tell the tale of it. 

So he does not touch you, and you hold your staff between both hands and pretend it is his own beskar you grip. You understand even more the gravity of simply holding hands.

“You have my word, _ridurr’ika_ ,” the Mandalorian whispers, the sound singing against the steel of his armor as he leans in. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the way his own must look. “Everything will be okay. No one will harm me and mine.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a Translations:
> 
> Ridurr'ika - Little wife


End file.
